


Something... ...eternal

by KyberHearts_And_StardustSouls



Category: Avengers, MCU, Marvel, Marvel AU - Fandom
Genre: A little bit of angst, F/M, Fluff, Love, Mostly fluff though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-22 20:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts_And_StardustSouls/pseuds/KyberHearts_And_StardustSouls
Summary: Bucky Barnes, the brooding Super Soldier, wants something a little more...domestic.Please be aware that I'll be updating chapters in a NON-LINEAR fashion. So we'll get windows into Bucky and Reader's life during different parts of their lives. The order in which to read chapters are as follows:...gentle*...kinder...charming...sweeter...awkward...tender...warmer...greater...softer*...honest...brighter...fragile...stronger...whole...quiet...never-ending...everlastingChapters with an asterisk have been posted.
Relationships: Bucky Barnes x female reader, James Buchanan Barnes x female reader, Sergeant Barnes x Reader, bucky x reader - Relationship
Comments: 8
Kudos: 73





	1. ...Softer

  
  
  
He stands in front of the blue door, clutching a soft bag in one gloved hand and scratching the nape of his neck with the other. He checks the room number on the wall, then on the flyer rumpled inside the bag.  
214.  
He’s in the right place.  
Still, he’s nervous.  
  
The last time he’d been at school had been some eighty-plus years ago and it had never looked anything like this.  
  
His memories may be fuzzy, and he’s working on that, but he doesn’t remember the hallways ever being this colorful. Children’s drawings are tacked on the upper half of the walls, spring decorations displayed in between, mostly card stock flowers and green paper strips made to look like grass. Some of the doors show off the artistic skills of the respective homeroom teachers, vibrant letters spelling out their names and those of their charges.  
  
The floors of his old school had been wood. Here, they’re linoleum squares in gray and bluish patterns, green footprint stickers showing the way to the cafeteria and yellow ones to the gym. Hook racks and cubbies line the bottom half of the walls, most empty like the hallways. It is, after all, nearly an hour past the end-of-school bell for the day.  
  
A couple of cleaning crews walk past him, acknowledging his presence with a nod and he nods back. They don’t question why he’s here. He could be a parent waiting to see one of the teachers. He is wearing a visitor’s badge and he does look old enough. He definitely feels old enough. And without a doubt, his birth certificate proves that he IS old enough to be a parent three times over.  
  
But children aren’t on his mind. Not yet. Not now. Although, he does admit, if only to himself, places like this do make him long for something more...

... domestic. Something... softer and far removed from what he’s doing now.  
  
He checks the flyer again. Then the door. Why Laura had insisted this to be a better option than the community center, he doesn’t know. A forced breath through pursed lips. _Now or never_ , he tells himself as he pushes the door handle down.  
  
At the teacher’s desk, a woman raises her head in surprise, gray tendrils framing her seasoned, yet warm face. “May I help you?” Her voice is soft and so are her eyes, life experience hidden in the creases when she smiles.  
  
Even though she seems kind, he holds a staggering breath. He may be the older one -he’s certain the woman sitting behind the desk is nowhere near his official age- but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s intimidated by her. And he’s not even a student.  
  
Teachers have always intimidated him in an unexplainable way. Even way back when, when he’d been at Camp Lehigh with his father, surrounded by rank and structure, the only ones he’d ever been truly intimidated by had been his teachers. Especially his English teacher: a sturdy woman with rigid posture and an even more rigid face.  
  
He swallows thickly as he looks to the ground, bouncing ever so lightly on the balls of his feet. “Uhm... well... one of my friend’s children goes to school here. And... well... I’ve been .... uhm... She gave me this flyer because I need help.” He stammers as he holds up the pink crumpled paper with curly letters. _Ex-assassin my ass_ , he scolds himself internally. If any of the Avengers could see him now, brooding stature diminished to a nervous wreck, he’d never hear the end of it. _What if she laughs at me?_ He ponders. _They likely would._  
  
“Ah, yes. Misses Barton mentioned you’d come in today. You’re a bit early. Sergeant Barnes, right?” The woman gets to her feet and walks around the desk, a stretched-out hand waiting for a nice-to-meet-you shake in return, the warm smile still lifting her face.  
“Uhmmm... yes... but you can call me James or... uhm... Bucky.” He offers shyly, gently -very gently- squeezing the woman’s hand while he asks himself how someone barely half his height and maybe one third his weight can be so intimidating.  
  
“James. I like that name. I’m Misses Flores.” She introduces herself, warm smile never faltering when she searches for his eyes. When he finally gets the courage to look at her face, she lets go of his hand. “No reason to be nervous, James. Everyone in this group is a beginner. Did you bring the supplies listed on the flyer?” Misses Flores rounds her desk back to her chair and Bucky nods.  
  
“I wasn’t sure about the color. But I think I bought the right supplies.” He squeezes the reusable bag almost protectively to his chest because he’s worried. He hadn’t exactly taken his time at the craft store. A race through the aisles because there is nothing more out of place than a brooding super-soldier between Perler beads and googly eyes.  
  
Misses Flores gestures for him to give her the bag and he relinquishes it with fire-red ears and cheeks lightly pink. “Looks ok to me. The color doesn’t matter. It is your project and you have to like it.” Her voice remains soft. “If you want, you can take a seat at one of the tables. Although... you might need a bigger chair. You can use mine.”  
  
“Oh... no... that’s ok... I’m sure... uhm... the chairs are fine.” Bucky tries to manipulate his tall frame into a chair clearly intended for a third grader and it’s the first time Misses Flores laughs (softly, though). She watches as Bucky stretches his legs, then angles them, adjusting his back several times, but it’s just not going to work. He’s too tall. And too heavy, the chair creaking under his super-soldier weight. “Ok... uhm... but if you need your chair...” He admits defeat and Misses Flores laughs again while she rolls her chair towards the circular setup of student desks and chairs.  
  
“The others will be here, soon. If you like, you can read over the instructions beforehand, so you get an idea of what we’re learning today.” She offers and Bucky accepts, still shy, still nervous, but calmer than just a few minutes ago.  
  
He is halfway through the page when a couple of students skip into the classroom, their giggling ending abruptly when they see him, and he sinks into the chair as if that helps in making him less visible.  
  
The students pace to Misses Flores’ desk, their eyes never leaving Bucky, and he wishes the ground would swallow him whole. “Zoey. Charlie. Could you two please put a copy of the instructions on each table?” The teacher asks and the girls nod, rounded eyes still fixated on Bucky.  
  
He questions once again why Laura had insisted that he’d feel more comfortable here. If anything, he’s more out of place here than he would’ve been at the community center. He’s a little bit scruffy. A little bit dark. Not just in his looks but his demeanor as well. It clashes with the bright and bubbly feel of the classroom. _Maybe that’s why they’re staring_.  
  
He watches as the girls whisper to each other, every so often eyeing him suspiciously over their shoulders while they finish their task.

“Zoey. Charlie. Could you two please put a small pack of gummy bears on each desk?” Misses Flores interrupts the whispers, and the girls nod again.  
  
They grab a large tub and go in the round, each student desk receiving a small pack of gummy bears. Each desk except Bucky’s. The girls stop in front of him and wait.  
“Would you like some gummy bears, too, James?” Misses Flores’ voice breaks the silence and Bucky’s brain sputters.  
“Uhm...”  
“They’re really good,” one of the girls speaks up.  
“Yeah. Really good. Have you had gummy bears?” The other girl chimes in and they wait, again.  
  
“Uhmmm yes... yes, I have. And yes, please.” Bucky holds out a gloved hand. “Thank you.” He whispers, eyes cast downward.  
“You can’t eat them, yet. They’re for break time.” The first girl explains as she lugs the tub back to the teacher’s desk.  
  
“Do we get to call you James?” The second girl asks, her ringlet curls bouncing ever so lightly as she balances on the tippy toes of her Mary Janes. She waits expectantly, arms behind her back and still balancing, and Bucky is processing the question.  
“Uhm... yes... or you can call me Bucky.” He offers, trying his best to keep his voice soft. He’s been told before he sounds as dark as he looks, and he’s trying his best to break from that. To make himself more approachable. Softer.  
  
“I’m Charlie.” The girl with the ringlets takes a seat at the student desk left to Bucky’s. “Actually, it’s Charlene. But everyone just calls me Charlie. And that’s my best friend, Zoey.” She points to the other student who is talking to Misses Flores. “I’m going to make my mom her birthday present. What are you making?” Charlie asks, looking up at Bucky, curious brown eyes awaiting an answer.  
His posture relaxes a bit, face softening to match his voice. “A present for a friend.” He states with a barely-there smile as he looks at Charlie’s little face.  
  
The girl takes his response as an invitation to chat, and chat she does. Words spill like a waterfall as she talks of her favorite colors and favorite games at recess and favorite foods and favorite books and the most boring homework assignments; in the same breaths asking what Bucky likes, but never giving him a chance to actually answer any of her questions as she jumps from subject to subject. Like a rogue-gone electric bubble-wand that won’t shut off, Charlie talks and talks and talks, filling the room with an energy that even the brooding Winter Soldier can’t escape.  
  
He chuckles a few times. At the energy and at the fact that Zoey has long joined the conversation with her own opinions about everything and anything. Two rogue-gone bubble-wands. And he can’t help but chuckle even more when the argument over “bestest ice-cream flavor” nearly seems to break the friendship only for the BFFs to agree that differences are ok.  
  
He’d been so caught up listening to the ice-cream debate, that he’d not noticed all the other students filing into the room. So it takes him by surprise when he hears a little voice from the right asking him a question.  
“What?” He stares down his right and finds timid eyes staring back. “I’m ... I’m sorry... I didn’t hear what you said.” Bucky stammers as softly as possible. He seriously didn’t mean to come off so ... abrasive.  
  
He debates if it might be best to leave but before he has a chance to shift in his chair, Misses Flores calls for everyone to find their place.  
“I’m happy to see that everyone brought the right supplies. So let’s get started. We’re going to read over each step, and then turn theory into practice.” The teacher sweeps a look across tables to see if everyone is paying attention, then she starts reading.  
  
Bucky takes the moment and scans the room. Most of the students are girls. But there are some boys. And while he might have been surprised way back when -when classes like this had been strictly allowed for girls only- he’s happy how the times have changed in that regard. There’s no teasing in this setting. They’re all eager to learn. All eager to create something for someone or themselves.  
  
Misses Flores finishes reading the last step, then rounds a look again to see if everyone is up to speed. “Ok. Now. I want everyone to take out your five-point-five crochet hook and yarn and we’ll start with some chains just to get a feeling for tension.” She pulls up a video on the smart-board while everyone gets their items ready. “This video shows how to start. I’ll put it on repeat so you can watch it a few times while I go around and show each of you how to make chains. You can, of course, try to go along with the video. I want everyone to make fifteen even chains. Once everyone knows how to do that, we’ll crochet the first row.”  
  
Bucky watches the video, then tries. And tries. And tries. He gets fifteen chains but they’re uneven. Some too tight. Some too loose. So he starts over. And over. And over. Two chains. Three. Four. Five. Damn it. Too tight. He sighs, exasperated, when he feels a presence in front of him.  
  
“It might be easier if you take off your gloves, James.” Misses Flores suggests soft-spoken and Bucky’s whole body tenses up. All the softness drains from his face.  
  
Take off his gloves?

Here?

Now?

He contemplates.

Well... maybe just his right glove.

Yes.

Just the right. (He relaxes a bit.)  
  
He takes it off slowly, hyper-aware that some fifteen pairs of eyes are watching him even as everybody is working on their own project, then he tries again. The feeling of the hook and the yarn is different without the glove. And he understands why it’s better, easier, but he’s determined to keep his left glove on.  
  
“Your right hand works the hook and stitches and your left guides the yarn and holds the tension.” Misses Flores takes a seat opposite the student desk he’s occupying and shows him one-on-one how to chain the yarn. “Like this.” She demonstrates and Bucky tries again, but it’s still uneven.  
  
“Maybe...” Misses Flores pauses. “If you take off the other glove?” She holds a warm, waiting gaze, eyes focused on his, and Bucky tenses up, again, so much so, he can feel the aluminum hook bending under the pressure of his natural hand.  
  
Silence hangs in the air. And his mind screams at him to leave. _LEAVE NOW! They won’t understand. They’ll think you’re a freak. A monster. **LEAVE!!!!**_  
“I promise you, no one in this group will make fun. No one.” Misses Flores whispers as she lays a very gentle hand on his still gloved left hand.  
  
“Misses Flores?” The boy sitting to Bucky’s right draws the teacher's attention. “I think I need to charge my hand, but I forgot my cable.” His voice is tiny but confident.  
“No problem, Nathan. Your spare cable and plug are on the shelf behind my desk.” The teacher points the way and Nathan jumps off his chair.  
  
Bucky has no idea how he’d missed this -he clearly had been preoccupied with his own fears- but the boy’s right hand is definitely a prosthetic. A bionic prosthetic. Not as sophisticated as his but still quite advanced. Little L.E.D. lights across the knuckles are blinking orange, and Bucky guesses that that’s how Nathan knows the charge is running low.  
  
“Can you work with your hand while it’s charging?” Misses Flores asks, kneeling in front of Nathan and the boy shakes his head.  
“I have to take the battery out.” There’s a frown pulling at Nathan’s face as he realizes that he’ll have to sit out most of the class if he does so. “Mom said if the light starts to go orange, the battery is at thirty-nine percent. Is that a lot?”  
  
“I think it is.” Bucky’s voice surprises the teacher and Nathan. And so does the fact that he’s taken off his left glove, revealing the charcoal and gold-laced surfaces of his Vibranium bionic arm. “How long does a charge usually last?” Bucky asks as he walks towards them.  
Misses Flores reads over a piece of paper attached to the spare cable. “Twelve hours. This is the first time this has happened.” She adds while Bucky kneels next to her.  
“And it just started blinking orange?” The super-soldier inspects the prosthetic and the boy nods in confirmation. “Ok... so twelve hours is one-hundred percent, and now it’s at thirty-nine percent, you should have...” Bucky pauses as he does the math in his head. “... about four and a half hours left. Maybe a little less. But it should be enough time.”  
  
“Do you want to keep going, Nathan? It’s up to you.” Misses Flores asks and Nathan nods his head eagerly.  
“Well, if you’re willing to go on...” Bucky scratches nervously over the nape of his neck. “I guess, so can I. Can you... can you show me how you hold the yarn so it doesn’t get stuck?” He wiggles his left hand and Nathan, again, nods his head eagerly.  
  
They return to their student desks and Nathan expertly shows Bucky how he works his bionic prosthetic, the boy adding chain after even chain after even chain, leaving Bucky impressed and trying again. Once Misses Flores hands him a spare crochet hook, that is.  
  
When everyone has had enough practice making chains, Misses Flores moves on. Another video on the smart-board, she walks the circle again, working one-on-one again. By break time, everyone is finished with at least ten rows of single crochets, some works looking neat and even, others still a little wobbly, but getting there.  
  
“Personally, I think Nathan’s hand looks way cooler.” Charlie stands in front of Bucky, her straightforward opinion making him chuckle. And the fact that she’s munching on a gummy bear.  
“It does look pretty cool.”  
“Can you change the colors on yours?” One of the children, whose name Bucky doesn’t know, asks.  
“No.”  
“Nathan can change the colors on his.” Zoey points out.  
“Sometimes, I wear red and gold.” Nathan tacks on.  
“Like Iron Man.” Another child adds.  
“Is yours waterproof?” Bucky hears the question but isn’t sure who asked.  
“Yes. It is. I can take showers with it on or off.” He explains.  
“See. Nathan can’t do that. He has to take it off, right Nathan?” Charlie looks to the boy and he nods.  
“But yours has neat lights.” Bucky smiles.  
  
The rest of the children flock around Bucky and Nathan, question upon question coming their way, more towards Bucky than Nathan. Do you need to charge yours, too? Can you lift heavy things? Is the arm heavy? Does it hurt when you take it off? Does it set off the metal detector at the airport? Do magnets stick to it? Does it shoot lasers like Iron Man’s?  
  
Some of the questions elicit soft laughs. And suddenly Bucky understands the why. Why Laura had insisted he’d feel more comfortable here than at the community center. The children are curious, but there’s no maliciousness in their questions, their straightforwardness. There is no teasing. No horrified stares. No awkwardness. Just curious and forward questions. And Bucky feels safe to give honest and forward answers. He even lets the children touch his arm.  
  
“Back to your desks, please.” Misses Flores is already pulling up another video and the children scurry to their places. “For this last part, I’m going to show you how to make the stitches taller.” She repeats the routine. Video. Walking the circle. One-on-one practice.  
  
She stops in front of Bucky to see if he’s doing ok. “Looks great.” Misses Flores inspects his crochet square, counting the stitches in some of the rows and Bucky’s cheeks turn a little pink.  
“Thanks.” He whispers sheepishly.  
  
The class ends at five, the children chatting excitedly and showing off their progress to each other.  
“I’m gonna make this into a scarf for my mom,” Charlie explains while holding up a nearly perfect green square of even rows.  
“I bet she’ll love it.” Bucky smiles and watches Charlie and Zoey skip out of the room, hand in hand. He’s sure their parents are waiting outside, like most.  
  
He inhales a soothing breath. He can’t explain it, but he hasn’t felt like this in a while. Light. Soft. Content. At least not around large crowds, no less around crowds where he doesn’t know anyone. But that’s what he feels like right now. Almost floating on happiness.  
  
He is gathering his materials when he hears Nathan’s small voice from the hallway. Excited words as he tells whoever about Bucky. “... and his arm is black and gold. And it goes all the way to his shoulder. But he doesn’t have any lights on it like mine does.”  
  
Bucky smiles to himself. He understands why. He has to make sure to thank Laura some time. But it’s your turn first. And that’s why he’s still in the classroom, fidgeting with his bag while he waits for Misses Flores to return.  
  
“Everything ok, James?” Her voice is still soft but a barely noticeable drawl pulls at the words just before she yawns.  
“Yes... uhmmm...” Bucky holds back. He doesn’t want to keep her waiting but he also doesn’t know how to ask when he sees the exhaustion of the day settle on her face.  
“I’m a very patient woman but I’m also tired.” She chuckles lightly and Bucky’s nose scrunches at her honesty.  
“It’s the reason I’m taking this class.” He pulls a photocopy from the bag and hands it over. “Well... uhmmm... my girlfriend... she makes me things all the time. She’s very creative. And I figured... maybe I can make that. It looked easy enough, but I ... I don’t understand how to read the pattern... and...” Bucky flounders and Misses Flores laughs softly.  
  
She reads over the diagram and the shorthand of the pattern, then looks at the picture. “When do you need it by?”  
“I was ... kinda hoping by ... Easter?” Bucky offers what he remembers as his charming forties smile and Misses Flores laughs yet again. He is trying, she has to give him that.  
“Come by tomorrow afternoon and I’ll explain how to read the pattern. You’ll need finer yarn and a smaller hook but it’s easy enough. If you work on it a few hours every night, you’ll get it finished in a week. Maybe less than a week.” The words sound encouraging and Bucky agrees.  
  
It’s been a week since and Bucky has lost count how often he’s dropped a stitch. How often he’s had to start a whole row over because he’d counted wrong or messed up the tension or mixed up a double with a single, or was it half double? And he’s definitely lost count how often he was **THIS** close to breaking another hook.  
  
There have to be hundreds of chains and stitches. Thousands, maybe? It feels like thousands. How do YOU have this kind of patience?  
Every time he watches you work on one of your many yarn projects you seem like you’re in heaven, blissfully unaware of time and space and sound.  
  
How did his sister have this kind of patience? He remembers watching her knit whenever he’d visited her, way back when, before it all. Before the war, before his best friend was half a head taller than him, before the train, before his arm. And she’d seemed just as content as you. Peaceful, actually.  
  
Maybe that’s why he likes watching you. Not because he’s reminded of his past, but because he sees a peaceful future. The something softer he’s been longing for ever since he’s met you.  
  
He can’t deny, he loves getting all these handmade things you make him. It had started with a Secret Santa scarf some three years ago and has grown into hats and sweaters and blankets. For birthdays and Valentines, Halloweens and just because gifts; adding soft touches first to him, then his room at the compound, and now to the small, two-bedroom house you share on Stark grounds.  
  
And he knows each stitch is crafted with love, so much love. He can tell whenever you give him something else. The way your face lights up when he wears the scarf or hat or snuggles up with one of the blankets or throws.  
  
He’s been teased about it and so have you, but he doesn’t care and neither do you, obviously, or else you’d have stopped making him things a long time ago. He loves all the softness you’ve given him because it’s all his and no one else’s.  
  
He’d thought long and hard these last few weeks. You’ve never asked for anything in return. Ever. But he felt like it was time to create something for you. Something soft. Something just for you by him.  
  
He sighs. At last, he’s finished. He’s not sure if he should laugh maniacally or cry with exhaustion. But it’s done at last. Simple and soft but still pretty. And he’s damn proud, so damn proud because despite the dropped stitches and do-over rows it looks just like the picture.  
  
He sneaks from the garage to the kitchen and sets up the surprise. A basket with fake grass and all your favorite chocolates, and in the center of it all, his soft creation lays carefully folded, covered in more fake grass. But the biggest gift nestles underneath. He wants to give you something more. And he can’t wait until you see what it is, his excitement nearly getting the better of him when he sneaks back to the bedroom and slips back under the soft duvet.  
  
“That was a quick run.” Your voice is laced with sleep and amusement.  
Bucky snuggles his face into the back of your neck and hums. “Didn’t feel like the regular run.” He whispers and he hears your shocked gasp.  
“James Buchanan Barnes not doing his daily five-mile run? Who are you, and what have you done with my boyfriend?” You snicker and he pulls you taut against himself, laughing with you.  
“Maybe I was trying to save my energy for something else.”  
You swear you can feel him wiggle his brows in mischief behind your back.  
  
You turn to face him and give him an I-dare-you smirk and he pounces at that. But mischief gets replaced with passion and need and tender soft love and whispered confessions. And then an hour of snuggling and kissing and the softest laughs when he tells you corny jokes, like “why did the chicken cross the road?”  
“Going to make breakfast.” You slide a gentle hand over his chest and he hums in agreement.  
  
He gives you a minute head start before he follows.  
You’ve already pulled the pan from the rack and eggs from the fridge. “Isn’t Easter tomorrow?” You point to the basket.  
“Guess the Easter Bunny hopped by early.” Bucky chuckles as he watches you.  
You consider his reply and ponder for a moment. “I should wait then... but ... chocolates.” You scrunch your nose and Bucky thinks it’s the most adorable quirk.  
“Go ahead. I’m sure there’s a reason it was left early.”  
  
He watches as you carefully peek inside the basket. Pulling chocolates from the sides before slowly moving the fake grass out of the way. Nearly strand by strand and the anticipation to see your reaction almost makes Bucky’s heart leap from his chest.  
  
“Oh... wow... Bucky... “ It’s like someone brought the sun into the house. “Wow... did you... did you make this?” You carefully unfold the dainty shawl. It’s simple but pretty and oh so soft. “And in my favorite color.” You smile as you wrap the shawl around yourself and Bucky feels as though his heart just might explode.  
  
“When did you make this?”  
“This last week.” His voice is proud.  
“Really?”  
“Hmmmm... took a class.” He gives you a scrunched face of his own, sheepishly scratching over the nape of his neck.  
“Wait! ... is this why you’ve been hiding in the garage? That explains the few choice words I’ve heard.” Your eyes narrow in thought and he laughs.  
  
He waits some more. Watches you turn this way and that. “I think I’ll wear this to the Easter egg hunt tomorrow. What do you think? With the flower dress?” You ask Bucky’s opinion and he nods, still waiting if you’ll see.  
  
You collect the chocolates and put them back into the basket, and Bucky’s stomach flips. Did you really not see it? He waits. More shuffling from you, more waiting from him. He swears he’s stopped breathing some time ago.  
And then...

... he sees it. The moment you find it.  
“Bucky... what’s... this?” You turn, holding a small velvet box in the palm of your hand, but you don’t have to wait for an answer, really.  
He’s already on one knee, smiling up at you, a gentle hand reaching for you. “Will you marry me?” He asks, soft-spoken, soft-hearted, and waits, again, carefully, very carefully taking the box from your trembling hand.  
You already know the answer.

All you have to do is say it.

Say it.

Just.

ONE.

WORD.

**SAY.**

**IT.**

“Yes.”  
  
Even with his enhanced hearing, he prays he’s heard right and waits.  
“Yes, Bucky! **YES!** ” You fall to your knees in front of him, holding his face between your hands as you pepper little kisses all over his face. “Yes.” You whisper, and he opens the box, trembling as much as you when he slips the ring on your finger, giving you -his love, his peace, his happiness, his soft future- the promise of his heart.  
  



	2. ...Gentle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader and Bucky meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Angst. This turned into something way more angsty than I anticipated but I promise there's fluff in the end. And well... Cuss words. Accident. Mentions of blood and injuries. I PROMISE the pup doesn't die!!!!!

  
“Fuck... fuck, fuck, fuck! **FUCK**!” He cusses under his breath as he runs towards the doors at top speed. “We’re almost there. Hang in there, Buddy.” His breath is ragged, voice shaky, and his body stings as he runs, but he pushes past the pain. Just a few more yards and he’ll be there. Inside. Where it’s warm, and most of all, dry.  
  
He has no idea how this had happened. He’s an excellent driver with excellent vision and excellent reflexes. Even in hard rain, he knows how to avoid obstacles. How to swerve the seven-hundred-plus pounds of rubber and steel without sliding out of control. How to squeeze the brakes progressively without flying over the front of the heavy machine.  
  
But not tonight. Not this time. He’d been so focused on the opening gate to the compound that he’d totally missed the shadow bolting in from the right. One microsecond was all it had taken. One microsecond of brakes getting squeezed too hard. One microsecond of losing control and turning into a slip-and-slide. One microsecond of choosing to let go or tumble along.  
  
He’d decided on the former, his machine scraping one way while he’d slid another, Vibranium fingers sparking while dragging grooves into the asphalt below. He has no idea how far he’d slid down the road before he’d come to a full stop. But he is glad that he’d let go, or else he’d be laying wrapped around a tree right about now, just like his Triumph Thunderbird Storm.  
  
The irony of his bike’s moniker hadn’t gone past him when he’d hobbled back to see what the fuck had crossed his path, all anger dissipating when he’d found a heap of dark fur whimpering in pain. A heap of dark fur that had growled weakly in defense before accepting its fate of getting swooped up in strong arms. His strong arms.  
  
His heart hammers in his chest when he finally reaches the double doors. They open automatically and sloshes of rain follow him inside. But he doesn’t give a fuck. Just like he doesn’t give a fuck about the torn leather dripping in a mix of water and blood. He’s sure pieces of his frayed leather jacket and pants are still clinging to the asphalt where he’d crashed. Not even the current downpour can wash those away, considering the force it had taken to come to a full stop. But he doesn’t give a fuck.  
  
All he cares about, in this very moment, is the shallow-breathing whimpering heap of dark fur in his arms that seems to get colder by the second. Why did it have to rain? The clouds could’ve held it together five more minutes. Everyone would’ve gotten home happy and whole.  
  
Fuck. **FUCK!** “Fuck...! Sam! Steve! Fuck... Is anyone here? Friday? Guys! I need help!” He yells as he falls to his knees, laying the bundle of wet fur on the ground as gently as possible. At least they’re out of the rain.  
“I am sorry, Sergeant Barnes. Agent Wilson and Captain Rogers left an hour ago for the Stark Relief Foundation. Would you like me to contact them?” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s Irish-accented voice echoes through the silence.  
  
Of course! The charity ball. He’d forgotten. On purpose. It’s why he’d been out and about in the first place. He’d made up an excuse. An obligation that had preceded the invitation to the ball. Something he couldn’t skip. In reality, he’d hidden out at some dive until he was sure that they’d all be gone by the time he’d get back, just so he could be sure they wouldn’t try and drag him along last minute.  
  
He can handle being around Steve. He can handle being around Sam. Even being around Tony. For short amounts of time, at least. He enjoys Wanda’s company. And that of Bruce. Their calming, and often silent presence. He really likes sparring with Nat. And playing chess against Scott or Vision. Hell, he can even handle being around the whole team for an evening or two. But he can’t handle the team plus one hundred or so strange faces. His patience only stretches so far. So he’d bailed. _They’re better off without me being there. Safer..._  
  
“Sergeant Barnes?” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice echoes again.  
“No! No need to call them. Call the closest vet.” Bucky instructs.  
“Contacting Doctor Carbonell.”  
  
Five rings in, the veterinarian picks up. A little grumpy. It’s way past after hours. But the second she hears “accident” and “hurt animal”, she’s in emergency mode. She instructs Bucky to get a blanket and check for open wounds, describe the demeanor and breathing. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. Just watch over him. Ten minutes tops. Keep the doors unlocked.”  
  
Bucky assures he’ll do as asked, runs to the common room down the hallway and grabs one of Tony’s expensive cashmere throws. He’ll replace it as soon as time allows. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and a few clean towels from under the sink and dashes back. Just when he’s close to the corner, he hears a weak whimper and picks up speed.  
  
He nearly crashes into the wall at the turn, heart racing as he fears the worst, only to discover someone’s beaten him to the chase.  
“Shhhh shhhh... it’s ok. I’m only going to take a look. Oh gosh. That leg does not look good. Shhhhh... shhhhh... not going to hurt you. Just going to put this on you.”  
Bucky’s brain seems stuck at the gentleness of the voice. Or maybe it’s surprise. “Doctor Carbonell? That was fast.” He’s sure he took less than a minute to grab what she'd asked for.  
  
“Who?”  
“I’m... uhm... Wait? Aren’t you Doctor Carbonell?” Bucky studies the situation. Fancy dress. Fancy heels. Hair done up. Makeup like a model’s. Teardrop diamond on a chain. A diamond bracelet around the right wrist. Shit. Maybe he had interrupted something important. He steps closer. Sees the expensive silk shawl draped over the dog. Notices the absence of a medical bag. But before he can ask, the dog whimpers again.  
  
“F.R.I.D.A.Y., how soon until Doctor Carbonell gets here?” Bucky asks with a hint of panic.  
“Six minutes and thirteen seconds.” The A.I. answers.  
“Poor thing. I hope he’s able to make it. Shhhh ... hang in there. Shhhh...”  
Bucky kneels, gently lifts the dog’s head to put the cashmere throw below and around, then gently searches the fur for signs of open wounds before he inspects the mangled leg.  
  
“I take it you’re running late for the charity ball, Miss...” Bucky whispers while gently, very gently wrapping a towel around the injured leg, trying to stabilize it in some way. His breath stutters when the dog winces in pain and he runs a gentle hand over flopped back trembling ears.  
“Y/L/N. Agent Y/F/N Y/L/N.” You say softly.  
“You should probably go then.” Bucky still whispers as he eyes you from the side, but your focus is on the hurt animal on the ground.  
  
You continue to comfort the hurt little soul as best as you can. Gentle pets. Very gentle pets to let the animal know someone is here. Someone will take care of him and soon, everything will be better. “What happened?” You ask, gaze drifting to Bucky. You gasp, shocked, when you notice Bucky’s torn clothing and he looks down on himself.  
  
“Looks worse than it is.” He tries to assure but it doesn’t stop your brows from scrunching together. Bucky heaves a breath, tries to hide a whimper of his own when he does so. “Motorcycle accident.”  
“We gotta get you to the infirmary.” Your voice is stern now but Bucky shakes his head.  
“Not until I know he’s going to be alright.” He points to the dog and somehow you know there’s no use in arguing this man.  
  
Not like you’d be able to drag him anyways. He’s taller than you. And he looks heavy with dense muscle mass. “At least let me check to make sure you’re not bleeding out on me.” You insist and Bucky hands you one of the clean towels when you stand up.  
  
You take it, moving around him slowly. Bucky tries not to steal glances as you kneel back down, now on his opposite side. He tries not to tense up when you lift torn leather to get a better view of his arm. His Vibranium arm. And he tries to stay relaxed when you inspect his left leg, but you can see his jaw clenching, the vein on his neck pulsing rapidly. He’s like a frightened animal that’s going to bite if you prod too much. You’ll have to make do with what you can see.  
  
There are no deep gashes. No excessive amounts of blood. Just a lot of scrapes and bruises, and you guess his ego has incurred greater damage than his physical body. “Well... looks like you’re ok. But I’m going to stick around anyway; just in case.”  
“I’m fine. You should go, Miss...” Bucky starts but you’ve already removed your heels, leaving no room for his argument to go on when you slowly start cleaning off bits of asphalt from his arm.  
  
A silence settles, and it’s very much appreciated by Bucky. He’s sure you have more questions. Who wouldn’t at this sight? But he’s glad you’re keeping them to yourself. He **IS** surprised that you don’t seem apprehensive. That you’re touching him with gentle ease. Unafraid. And now he has questions, too.  
  
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.” He starts softly and you chuckle.  
“I don’t imagine so. Got here last week.”  
Bucky raises a brow. Last week? He’s sure he would’ve seen you by now if you’ve been here since last week. He knows **EVERYONE** who works here. At least their files. Because it’s a tick of his. Something he’d started doing when the other one had finally been wiped from his conscience. To know who surrounds his colleagues. His friends. His very best pals. “Last week? What department you with?”  
  
“Are you interrogating me, Sergeant Barnes?” You can see Bucky holding his breath, his eyes wide. “IT Security.” You supply when he doesn’t answer.  
“IT Security? Computer tech?”  
“Hmmmm... something like that. Technically my job description is “Penetration Tester”,” You use air quotations. “But I think ethical hacker sounds... more...”  
“Appropriate?”  
A laugh bubbles from you when you see Bucky’s eyes rounding out even more, his cheeks turning a hint of abashed pink. _Interesting_.  
  
Silence takes over again. Bucky’s natural hand rests protectively on top of the dog’s ribcage and he gently counts each breath. Every time there’s a whimper, you speak gentle words of assurance. Calming whispers. “We’re still here.” Until the high beams of Doctor Carbonell’s car lifts both your attention.  
  
The veterinarian is fast in approach, stethoscope already in ears by the time she kneels. “Ok... breathing sounds good. Don’t hear any wheezing. So that’s a good thing. Heart rate is high. That’s to be expected. Stomach sounds ok, too.” She goes on to assess eyes, ears, limbs, spine. The second she touches the mangled leg, there’s a whimpered growl. “I have a large crate in the van. We’ll put the dog in there and then I’m taking him to the clinic.”  
  
This time, Bucky is fast on his feet, helping Doctor Carbonell carry the crate inside. They’re swift to take the top half off, making it easier to gently lay the dog inside. “Make sure the clips are secured.”  
“I did. He’s good to go. Do you need me to tag along?”  
You may not know Bucky personally but you can hear the concern in his voice once the crate is stowed safely in the van.  
  
Doctor Carbonell shakes her head while texting whoever. “A team will be waiting for me once I get back to the clinic. Besides...” She drags a wide-eyed gaze down Bucky’s frame. “Looks like you need some medical attention yourself.”  
“I’ll make sure to take him to the infirmary.” You side with the veterinarian’s observation, a gentle hand on Bucky’s bicep squeezing him reassuringly. “I’m sure Doctor Carbonell will give us a call as soon as she’s taken care of the pup.” You give the vet an almost pleading look because you get this feeling any reply other than a confirmation, to let Bucky know the animal is ok, will have him insist on tagging along.  
“Of course. I’ll give you a call as soon as possible.” The vet turns the key. She nods one more time, then drives off and Bucky stares after the van.  
  
And stares.  
  
And stares.  
  
“Sergeant Barnes?” Your voice is like a faraway echo that’s getting closer. “Sergeant?”  
“What?!” His response is a little gruff like you’ve interrupted some important train of thought, but really his mind is stuck in a flashback. The dog’s mangled leg. His frozen metal arm. The dog’s leg. His metal arm. The leg. His arm.  
  
He feels a gentle touch to his chest and recoils. Where is he....? When is he...? When did you move in front of him? When did the rain stop? How long has he been standing here? With you... in front of him?  
“Let’s get you to the infirmary, Sergeant Barnes!” Your voice is soft but resolute. Bucky blinks and you nod towards the elevator, a stretched out arm hinting the direction to walk and that you won’t take no for an answer. And he complies without much fuss, just a lowly huffed breath.  
  
The swift elevator ride to sub-level one is quiet. So is the walk to the in-house infirmary. Sergeant Barnes is a man of few words. So you’ve been told since you’ve arrived. And now you’re witness to it. He doesn’t say anything when he takes a seat on the medical table. Doesn’t say a word when you power up some of the equipment. And stays silent when you gather medical supplies; mostly gauze and a collection of liquids, surely to clean cuts and scrapes.  
  
He does watch carefully, though. Every move you make, he studies. The way you wash your hands. Not once, but twice. How you pull on a pair of latex gloves if a bit clumsy in doing so. Clearly, you don’t do this every day. How you set up a tray with the sterile supplies, and how you open a pair of sterile, curved bandage-scissors.  
  
He watches closely as you organize items one last time. And he definitely watches closely as you lay a gentle hand on torn leather, scissors ready in your other hand. He knows -deep down, very deep down in his gut- that you won’t hurt him. He knows, and yet, his body’s response betrays him. He’s so tense, so rigid, for a moment you think he’s turned into a statue. So you stop and wait, feeling his intense gaze on you.  
  
“I need to cut this off.” You -softly, very softly- state the obvious. “Same goes for your pants.” You add when he doesn’t say anything in return. He just nods, slowly, and slowly you begin to cut away torn leather and taffeta and cotton from his Vibranium arm, fibers intermingled, worsted together from when he’d slid down the road.  
  
His leather pants you cut from the bottom up. And only on the left side. You’re more careful here. After all, this is real flesh, and super-soldier or not, you’re sure that pulling the torn pieces stings like a SOB. “I’ve cut away as much as possible. Lift your arm and I’ll help you take off the rest of the shirt and jacket. And if you could lose the other side of the pants.” You instruct and Bucky’s body stiffens even more.  
  
He hates this. He hates people seeing him like this. On display. There are too many bad memories whenever he’d been on display like this. Exposed. Cold. Screams. Zola. - He knows, **KNOWS** you’re only trying to help but he can’t ... he can’t... he can’t ... he can't... he can't...  
His fists tighten on the edge of the medical table and the steel frame bends under the pressure of his Vibranium hand.  
  
“Sergeant Barnes?” Your voice is distant again. “Sergeant? Look at me. Please... breathe with me. Breathe in... one... two... three... four... five... Breathe out... one... two... three... four... five....” You repeat this a few times. And a few times more. And one more time, and at last, he looks at you and you offer nothing but kind eyes and a gentle smile.  
 _God, you're... you're beautiful_ , Bucky internalizes this thought. _So caring. So kind. So..._  
  
“I’m sure there are some scrubs or something somewhere in here. What size are you? L? XL?” You start your search and actually find what you’re looking for in a closet nearby. “Why don’t I step outside and you change. Let’s say five minutes?” You don’t give Bucky time to answer. You just leave the change of clothes on a chair and head out the door.  
  
When you return, he sits changed on the medical table. He’s even lost his boots, but his socks remain. His posture is softer. Not much. But there is a difference. “I’m sorry.” He whispers, gaze fixed on the floor.  
“For what?”  
The way he looks up at you, brows scrunched together, surprised... “I know you’re just wanting to make sure I’m ok. I’m... I... I don’t like this.” He sweeps his natural hand on the steel of the medical table and you nod in understanding.  
“Then let’s run the scan real fast so you can get out of here.”  
Bucky scoffs out a small laugh. “Thank you.”  
  
“Nothing to thank me for, Sergeant Barnes.” You motion your hand for him to lie down and he follows through.  
“It’s Bucky.” He whispers once his head is on the pillow you’ve provided.  
“I thought your name is James. James Buchanan Barnes.”  
  
God, your voice is so soft. So gentle. But so sincere. Not once has he heard a hint of sarcasm. Or a shift in volume. Or fear. Or disgust. “The only one to ever call me James was my mother. And only when she was angry. She usually just called me Jamie.” He offers the information freely and you laugh softly.  
“Don’t all mothers call their kids by their actual name when we’ve been up to no good?”  
Bucky laughs, his body relaxing as he mulls over what you’ve said. “I guess. But I swear, she didn’t have to say it often.” There’s a hint of mischief now. In his voice and his eyes.  
  
“Well. Bucky... do me a favor and hold still for a few minutes.”  
He nods, then realization strikes him. “I thought you said you work IT Security? You know, tech?”  
“I do. And this is tech. And being an ethical hacker... it’s not difficult to figure this out. Besides...” You pause what you’re doing and approach the table, gently adjusting Bucky’s head so his eyes look straight up at the ceiling. He’s tense again, so you run a soothing hand over his forehead. _Such gentle fingers._ “I have F.R.I.D.A.Y. to help me interpret the results. Isn’t that right, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” You ask before heading back to the large screens shimmering blue in collecting data.  
“Yes, Agent Y/L/N.”  
  
Bucky watches you from his peripheral as you tinker with the keyboard, typing some short commands. He’s a little amused that you’re still dressed to the nines while he lies on a medical table in some hospital-type garb.  
“Alright, F.R.I.D.A.Y., let’s hear it. How bad’s the damage? In simple terms, please.”  
Bucky chuckles at your words, still watching you as you nod when the A.I. speaks up in her Irish-accented voice.  
“Multiple contusions. Bruised ribs. Mostly on the left side. Lacerations. Nothing that requires stitches. They do need to get cleaned out properly.”  
“Good. That’s good. How about broken bones?” You nod.  
“There are zero fractures.”  
“Very lucky. And the noggin?”  
Bucky chuckles again. _Who says noggin nowadays?_  
“No signs of TBI. I do suggest a twenty-four-hour observation time to be safe.”  
You nod again, looking over the other data provided. “Wow! Your resting heart rate is ... insanely low.” You peer towards Bucky and see his body tremble from a laugh, then slowly pace his way while he sits up.  
  
“I told you, I’m fine.” He smiles with a hint of smugness and you, for whatever reason, reach out and sweep a strand of hair out of his face.  
Bucky’s breath hitches high in his chest, his blue eyes intensely following the movement of your fingers down the side of his face to the edge of his Vibranium arm. Suddenly, the screens beep and his resting heart rate isn’t so calm anymore.  
  
“Sorry.” You whisper, pulling your hand away. You’ve unintentionally invaded his space. But you couldn’t help yourself. There’s a softer side to him. Something gentler than the gruff façade he usually seems to display. You swallow a breath and take a step back. “How about... you go take a shower. Wash off all this muck. Put on some shorts and a T. And then meet me in the upstairs common room.” Again, you don’t give him a chance to answer. You leave before he can even think of a response.  
  
When he finally finds his way to the shared common room, you’re already waiting for him, sitting on an ottoman and changed into more comfortable clothes. Your hair and makeup also taken down a notch, and suddenly he feels a bit guilty. “Did I ruin your evening?” He asks when he takes a seat opposite of you, dressed as requested in shorts and a plain, white T.  
  
You shake your head and motion for Bucky to show you his left leg. The dirt has been washed away and all you see are scrapes. Some deeper than others. You put on a pair of gloves, then hold up a small bottle of ointment, waiting. Bucky agrees with a nod and you get to work, gently massaging ointment into the already healing wounds. “Better safe than sorry.” You whisper before moving to inspect his Vibranium arm.  
  
For the first time this evening, Bucky stays relaxed. He knows you won’t do anything to hurt him. **HE KNOWS**. He... knows. “Thank you. Again.” He smiles as you continue to softly prod individual sections of his arm.  
“No problem. I take it, Princess Shuri has built in a self-diagnostic subroutine that automatically fixes any issues with the arm.” You gently turn Bucky’s arm at the wrist to inspect sections on the other side and he still smiles.  
  
Now, in the warmer light, he is finally able to fully take you in. You’re curious but in a sweet way. Smart, for sure. Ethical hacker that you are. Beautiful in every way Bucky thinks of beauty. And gentle. Oh so gentle. Like you know he needs a softer touch. More care. More cautious approach. “How long did it take you to read my file?” He asks, holding a gaze on you.  
“Unabridged? About a week.” You supply so nonchalantly, Bucky can’t help but let out a throw-his-whole-body-in laugh.  
“Do I get to read yours?” He asks when he calms down and you offer him a smirk.  
“No.”  
“What? That’s not fair.” He pretends to be offended but in all honesty, he knew you’d say that. Just somehow, he knew.  
  
He wants to say something else. Something to tease you. Dare he even think, flirt. But just as he has the perfect comeback, his cell interrupts his thoughts. “Barnes... Doctor Carbonell? Yes... how is he?”  
You give Bucky some space, busying yourself with cleaning up the area before grabbing a couple of waters from the fridge.  
  
Bucky’s face is serious and you cannot help to eavesdrop. “I see... no... I’ll pay for everything. Yes... let me know as soon as you know more.” Bucky hangs up and sighs, tension returning to his body. Subconsciously, he rubs his natural hand down his cybernetic arm, and it dawns on you what the conversation must’ve been about.  
  
“He’s going to be ok, but...” Bucky stares off into some distant point and you’re not sure how to approach him this time. He doesn’t seem to panic. His breathing stays calm. He doesn’t seem angry. His face is almost unreadable, but you’re sure there’s no anger. He just seems lost contemplating.  
  
“Animals are... amazing. The way they learn to adjust. To overcome. I think he’ll do just fine. Especially since you’re going to visit him.”  
Bucky eyes you at the last statement.  
“I know you’re going to visit the pup.”  
“How can you be so sure?”  
“Because you’re James Buchanan Barnes. Captain’s best friend. Always getting him out of trouble and fixing him up.”  
“You know way too much about me, and I know nothing about you.”  
“Hmmmm... plenty of time to change that.” You wink at Bucky. “Anyways. I’m going to call it a night. I’ve instructed F.R.I.D.A.Y. to keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours. So, no crazy stunts. And get some rest.”  
  
You, once again, leave Bucky standing, no chance for him to argue that he’s fine. So he does as you say, and heads back to his room for a good night’s rest only to end up tossing and turning, one thing on his mind: _how do I ask her out?_  
  



End file.
